


Vienna

by sian1359



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Pre-Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Slash, Strike Team Delta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:37:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2776712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission in Vienna doesn't go off without it's hitch, but the outcome turns quite favorable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vienna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [varjohaltija](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija/gifts).



> I couldn't do the hair dresser fic, sorry. Strike Team Delta, on the other hand, although I did kinda fridge Natasha. She's there in spirit however. And the ending is open for many possibilities.

 

Not being there when someone needed him, Phil had long thought, was the worst feeling in the world. It brought him no comfort to discover he was wrong, to find out that having everything go to shit right in front of him and being unable to do anything about it felt even worse. Seeing the same look of helplessness and fear on Barton's face where he stood behind the bar pouring drinks only added to Phil's sense of failure. As much as Agent Romanoff meant to him, she meant so much more – meant everything – to Barton. Those two were _partners_ , perhaps not sexually but not just in work. In their thinking; in their natures … in their very existence. Phil was simply the face of their path to redemption. The guy who shepherded them and tried not only to give them the opportunity to reclaim what others had taken away from them, but a little sense of comfort and peace.

Operations went wrong all the time, of course, and Phil had experienced his share of such as an Army Ranger even before he'd become an agent of SHIELD. Including some that had fallen apart because of something he'd done. Or failed to do. But in those instances, he'd always been able to do _something_ to try and pick up the pieces, even if it was standing back and turning it over to others better suited. Now he had all of SHIELD’s resources to call upon, along with the trust of the director, to take whatever actions were needed. If his own considerable skills weren't up to the task, he commanded talented assets like Barton and Romanoff to follow his lead so they might save the day.

Not this time.

It wasn't the bad guys who were putting the cuffs on Romanoff and hauling her way. It was the Austrian authorities. And while SHIELD would eventually be able to extract her, doing so presumptively or prematurely could jeopardize SHIELD's long term relations and sufferance to conduct their business within Austria's borders, especially as Romanoff appeared to be guilty of the murder she was being arrested for.

There was also the factor of four weeks of prep, nine weeks of mission participation, and no resolution yet to consider. While Phil would never put an operation's outcome before an operative's life, being sent to prison for the greater good wasn't the same as getting killed or even being left behind in enemy hands. SHIELD certainly wasn't the IMF, who disavowed their people at the slightest mishap, but Phil well knew that Victoria Hand and many of the others in charge of Oversight and Field Operations would advocate letting the Black Widow twist in the wind if it meant not compromising the mission. He knew, too, that the World Security Council would concur. They'd most likely see this unlucky circumstance as vindication of their doubts over letting a former Soviet spy join SHIELD in the first place, even if Romanoff had been a loyal and dedicated agent for over a year at this point. The WSC saw double crosses and betrayals coming from everyone, no doubt in part because that's how the world operated at their level: all political conniving and brinksmanship.

No wins unless someone else lost.

Phil liked to believe things weren't quite as futile as all that. When all options were taken away from you, it was time to change the game.

He dropped a hundred dollar equivalent tip onto his table and rose, leaving his last drink untouched. Certainly not the only patron standing with a thought to leaving while the police were on hand, Phil instead approached one of the officers to offer his card and his passport. Or, rather, his alias' credentials which, like Romanoff's – or Barton's – would hold up to even Interpol's scrutiny. He had little doubt that everyone's information would be gathered, just from being on site where a murder took place, and it was Phil's hope that volunteering his cooperation would let him depart that much sooner.

That it also afforded him the opportunity to pass by Romanoff as she was escorted away was mostly for her benefit; to show her that he wasn't going to abandon her regardless of procedure. It was for his own well-being to insure that she was mostly okay; not that the Viennese police department had a reputation for mistreating their detainees. It was difficult to see her looking so vulnerable, however, despite knowing that her countenance of shock and fear was feigned. Thanks to her Red Room training, her masks were more impenetrable than his, so that if she was showing any expression, it was one of her own choosing. He knew that this state of affairs had blind-sided her too, and while she gave away only what she allowed, that didn't mean she wasn't _feeling_ the emotions just the same.

An observer would see only blind hope on Natasha's face when she'd looked to him at his approach. Her look was the desperation of someone hoping someone else might be able to deliver her from her fate, because why else would he even be drawing attention to himself? In return, he showed only mild interest and a hint of regretful disdain that someone so lovely on the outside could be so ugly as to kill a man on the inside. They gave no spark of recognition, no change in body language that might indicate a connection beyond what the police would find when reviewing any camera footage: that of a patron who'd spent a couple of nights a week coming in for a drink and the show of which Romanoff was one of the dancers for the last three weeks. That she'd also been a favorite of Hans Pendleton, the owner, had meant she was hands off to everyone else, so there would be no evidence that Phil had ever spoken to her, much less conspired with her to commit murder.

Still, Phil liked to think that Romanoff had a little more faith on the inside, even as her persona of Alaina Kachess crumpled and began sobbing at being dismissed as nothing more than a curiosity.

After giving a brief statement along with details of how he could be reached if needed at a later time, Phil walked out of the club and away from where Romanoff was being put into a squad car. He didn't even glance in Barton's direction as he departed; Barton had been his asset for nearly four years now and while he wasn't beyond letting his heart overrule his head, especially when it came to Natasha Romanoff, Phil trusted that Barton wouldn't go off half-cocked this time around. Not when Phil had been the only one outside of Director Fury himself to support Barton's call of turning Romanoff instead of killing her. He'd find out if that trust was misplaced soon enough – or not so soon, Phil supposed, since as an employee of the same club as Romanoff, no doubt Barton's wait for an interview by the police would come only after the rest of the guests gave their statements.

Phil called for a taxi and gave the address to the hotel he'd registered under, one half a mile away from the safe house they were actually working from, his mind already sorting through the steps he'd need to take to keep Hand from pulling him and putting in another agent who wouldn't have divided priorities. The circumstances of Pendleton's murder had to be uncovered, if only to insure the act and the assassin had nothing to do with SHIELD's purpose here. To attempt to pursue that purpose without confirming whether their presence had been compromised only invited the likelihood of another murder: Romanoff's, Barton's or his own, and while no was truly irreplaceable, the hole such a thing would leave would take more than just time and a single replacement to fix.

Strike Team Delta was perhaps not unique, but the three of them were considered to be the best, and as such, too many operations would be set back months if not years while a new teammate or an entire new team was read in.

*********

"She didn't do it," Baron practically shouted in lieu of any greeting – or perhaps he assumed the slamming of the front door was hello enough.

Phil lifted his head from the tabletop where he'd fallen asleep over the notes he'd been compiling and gave his face a vigorous scrubbing, immediately feeling guilt over having fallen asleep, when it was obvious by both his mien and his manner, that Barton had not been given the same opportunity. Checking his watch, Phil grimaced. It was going on one pm already, meaning Clint had been kept by the police and possibly his employer for twelve hours; long past his shift and through the hours he'd normally be catching sleep along with Phil and Romanoff, as Phil was keeping the same hours as their shifts at the club. Up around noon after turning in to bed around three, and taking breakfast right now, while also going over a daily briefing. While needing to stay awake beyond twenty-four hours wasn't unheard of during missions, they usually operated in shifts, and even when Barton was set up in a sniper's nest for days on end waiting to take the shot, he could take cat naps as long as Phil or another agent maintained overwatch.

Barton looked rough, his blood up from his agitation, though too damn attractive regardless, wearing his required 'uniform' of ass-fitting pants and eyeliner, along with an open vest in lieu of a shirt. Frankly, Phil had found Barton and some of the other male bartenders much more compelling than the female burlesque dancers that were the main attraction of Boom Room, though he would have watched when Romanoff was on stage even if he wasn't her handler and the one who had put her there on the stage. Barton's eyeliner was smudged, either from him having rubbed at his eyes at some point, or maybe from his bike ride and then the walk from his cover address to the safe house.    

Phil had plenty of experience in compartmentalizing his attraction to Barton, however. His focus now was solely to insure his asset's well-being. Barton normally vacillated between stoicism and smart-ass as his default modes. Phil was surprised to be able to read his frustration. He would have chocked it up to exhaustion, but he could also make out Barton's hope that Phil wasn't going to let him down as well as his fear and resignation that he'd end up being disappointed and dismissed.

Considering they'd been working missions together for four years, Phil almost felt offended that Barton still doubted him, but then everything between them changed whenever Romanoff was involved. Phil knew that Barton felt a sense of responsibility toward her in addition to everything else the two of them shared. He knew he shouldn't take Barton's doubts personally, that he should instead feel more respected than disappointed, in that Barton felt comfortable enough not to hide emotions he didn't normally express.

"I promise, I'm not going to leave Natasha hanging," Phil offered with all the reassurance he could voice and show. "Even if she did – "

"But she didn't!" Barton insisted, his movements further into the room sharp and jittery as he tried to let anger compensate for his flagging energy. "I know what everyone says about her, how the junior agents fear her and the senior ones at least fear her methods. And her successes. But she's not just the Black Widow, not even on missions like this one. If nothing else, you know that she's allowed men to do worse to her without killing them."

 _She's also killed men for doing less_ , but Phil didn't say that, because Barton was right in that too many others within SHIELD saw only Romanoff's body and believed only her reputation instead of trying to get to know the woman as well as the agent. Romanoff's body count during operations was certainly diminished in her year with SHIELD compared to before. Phil didn’t think she was stalking prey when she was off the clock either, no matter how many kills were still being accredited to her.

"I do know she knows the mission, Barton – Clint. And I do trust her. I trust you even more, so if you say she didn't kill Pendleton, I believe you. My point was going to be however, that even if she had, I also know she would have had a reason, which is good enough for me to make sure she doesn't take the fall for it. I will always have your backs, Clint. At least long enough to give you the chance to explain things. "

"Yeah, you do. You did, for me, with when I brought her in." Barton let his shoulders drop the tension they'd been carrying, and finally tugged his jacket off, flinging it behind him to drape over the arm of the couch, without looking of course. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to doubt you," he apologized and started to pull back the chair across from Phil until Phil waived him to come around to the same side as he had nothing out on the table Barton couldn't see. Barton often noticed things others missed. He should also be less distracting if he wasn't slouched across from Phil, although that was likely futile since this put Barton in a chair next to him, close enough to kiss.

"You don't need to apologize, Barton, but I thank you for the consideration," Phil told him, mindful not to belittle the gesture. "We'll figure things out and get Natasha back. While I'd prefer not blowing our covers, I will if that's the only way."

"But it would be better if we figured out who took out Pendleton and gift-wrapped them for the cops," Barton concluded. He twisted the chair around so he could lean against the back and aimlessly shift through the dossiers they'd put together on the people they'd identified as Pendleton's friends and contacts.

Phil nodded and bit his lip in relief as Barton's positon left only his arms exposed, not that they weren't impressive thanks to his preference in using a bow as his primary weapon. Not that the line of his back and the hint of flesh between the vest and his low riding pants weren't objects of fascination in and of themselves. "That can wait for you to catch some sleep – "

"Yeah, I will. In a bit," Barton promised. "But I'm still too wired to lie down. And too hungry," he added, his tone an echo of the hopefulness in his eyes as he turned his head, not that Phil needed to look over to feel himself cave.

While Phil wasn't a gourmet cook by any means, he wasn't as helpless as Barton was. Especially in making breakfast.

"Fine, but no coffee." For either of them, since Phil needed more sleep himself. "Scrambled eggs okay?"

The omelets he'd been cooking every few mornings would be too complicated, Phil decided, even knowing that Barton would have helped chop the ingredients. There might not be anyone who Phil trusted more in handling a knife, even while exhausted, but there was no reason to invite bad luck. No reason to make him get up either, considering Phil wasn't sure if it was only the chair back holding Barton up; if he fell asleep despite his assertion, Phil wouldn't begrudge the waste of food, or of his time.

"As long as there's catsup," Barton proclaimed.

Phil hid his shudder, then kicked himself for being one of those people who looked down on Barton's Midwestern roots as something less sophisticated. Really, there was no difference in using Tabasco over catsup, something Phil had certainly used plenty of when he'd been an Army Ranger.

"Have you come up with any likely candidates?" Barton asked once Phil had his head out of the refrigerator.

"Too many, that's the problem," Phil admitted. "We chose to come after Pendleton in the first place, because he had ties to many of the organization on SHIELD's watchlist in this area. We've marked fourteen different people of interest that he's brought to the club in the weeks we've been watching, and if the hit was personal, there are even more suspects."

"Suspects like Pendleton's daughter, but Tasha is the one who's befriended her when she was asked for advice on the boyfriend, so I've got no play there. Now, rumor has it that the brother of Pendleton's wife is interested in men, but the rules for the employees are hands off his family. "

"With Pendleton himself being the exception," Phil growled, though he was just as angry about the thought of Barton needing to seduce someone to keep the mission going as he'd been wary of how far Romanoff might need to go to attract Pendleton's attention. As far as he knew, it hadn't actually gone so far as sex, but –

"If you want to call his singling out one of his dancers and pressuring her into playing hostess to his meetings dating," Barton retorted with his own growl.

Phil poured his egg mixture into the heated pan instead of responding and fueling something they weren't actually disagreeing about. Barton, in turn, sighed and scrubbed at his face.

"I know Tasha volunteered for this – that you gave us both more outs than probably Fury and most certainly Hand wanted, but… "

"But you're worried, because we're not in control right now," Phil finished for him, carefully adding the rest of the ingredients. "I'm worried too. Frankly, I always worry, even when things are going better than we hope. Even though I know the two of you are two of the best we have and are more than capable of operating without me or without SHIELD resources. It's the nature of the job when we put people ahead of the mission or the policies. I don't intend to change, but if there ever does come the day where I forget that – "

"Trust me, if that days does come, Nat and I will kick your ass. Sir," Barton promised with a grin as he rose to get them something to drink.

Phil gestured yes to milk over the orange juice.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, but don't take it as me giving you permission to keep hassling the assistant deputy director, Barton. Maria Hill deserves your respect. SHIELD needs the people who keep track of the big picture too."

"No on Hill, but I can keep harassing Victoria Hand?"

Phil hid his own grin as he split the omelet onto two plates. "As long as you don't get caught," he allowed, knowing both that Hand needed a little reminder that assets and field agents weren’t just tokens, and that while everyone accused Barton of being a menace, no one had ever actually caught him or found evidence to prove it.

"I never do," Barton crowed. "You know, sir," he continued, once Phil joined him back at the table, "there might be a better way to bring the murderer to light than just flailing about and hoping we get lucky."

"I like to think SHIELD agents don't flail. Or rely on luck," Phil chided. "Going through the process of elimination might be tedious and time consuming, but ultimately it works most of the time."

Barton rolled his eyes. "Fine," he grumbled. "Maybe not a more reliable way, but certainly a quicker one, that also has pretty good odds of working."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this way?" He started cutting his omelet into bite size pieces, but suddenly didn't have the stomach to actually eat.

"Because we've been working together too long?"

Of course Barton wasn't going to lose his appetite at the proposal Phil was pretty sure he'd worked out. Barton was always too ready to put himself in danger if it meant keeping someone else out of it.

"You want to attract the murderer's attention by setting yourself up," Phil deduced. "Do you intend to take the credit? Or make the accusation?"

That earned Phil another grin, not that he was happy to find out he was right. He forced himself to take a bite, however, lest Barton realize how pissed off Phil was about the offer. Even if it was, actually, an action plan that likely would work. And would be timely too, just as Barton intimated.

"I think claiming to be a witness in some fashion will play better," Barton confirmed. "Von Dieter is looking to make more money than what he's getting for tending bar and being the Grosner syndicate's plant in Pendleton's organization. At this point, I think he'd sell information to anyone willing to buy, not just to his employers. But if nothing else, he's also a consummate gossip. "

Phil had to set his fork down. "You do realize that it won't just be the murderer who's going to want to extract what you know, right? That if it wasn't one of Pendleton's own people looking to move up, his lieutenants are going to need to find out who targeting their boss just to keep hold of their influence. Dealing with the murderer themselves – and anyone else who is involved even peripherally – might keep one of the other players from coming in and taking over Pendleton's territory. Not to mention how pissed off they'll be once they find out you were just making things up. "

"Do you have a better idea?" Barton challenged.

Inwardly, Phil kicked himself for making t sound like he either didn't trust an idea that wasn't his own, or that he didn't think Barton had the skill to play the game he'd just proposed. Romanoff was a master of this kind of information gathering, so maybe Barton thought that _Phil_ thought he was only trying to prove himself –

"I do not, though this may seem like our only option because we're both sleep deprived," Phil temporized. "I'm not saying no, just no for right now. Can you give me that?"

Instead of bristling, Barton looked embarrassed. "Yeah, of course, Coulson. Let me get a shower and I'll set my alarm for five hours, then we can reconvene before I have to go back in tonight. Do we have anyone in the area on standby that might be able to go in as Tasha's lawyer while we crash? Someone who won't tattle back to Hand or Fury? She might have her own ideas on who could have set her up. Aren't the good guys supposed to have good luck once in a while?"

Phil nodded, but he was a realist, even if Captain America was his role model. It was quite possible their good luck had already come, from Romanoff not being in the room with Pendleton at the time of his murder. No one at SHIELD had predicted Pendleton's death as a potential outcome to the operation. Which, again, had Phil thinking it was something personal instead of business related. Something done by an amateur.

Phil hated it when amateurs were involved. Wild cards, by their very nature, were unpredictable and all too often a game changer.

***********

Barton gave him not only the next few hours, but those of the following shift at the club and one more sleep cycle to come up with a better solution than becoming a target. In that interim, they had a local agent make contact with Romanoff. To little success as far as getting intel, unfortunately, but Phil liked to think all three of them felt better for making sure she was alright and aware that she wasn't being abandoned. Phil had also contacted an old friend who now worked in the SHIELD archives to run some checks below the radar on the recent financials and phone activities on a few people the rumor mill liked beyond Romanoff for the murder, including Pendleton's driver, who'd been called by the police to come in for further questioning, and one of the dancers who'd quit the club once she'd become pregnant, possibly by Pendleton. Although she was eight months along, she always could have hired or talked someone else into killing Pendleton for her.

Unfortunately, they found no smoking gun in the data, nor had Phil come up with a new suggestion to get Romanoff freed. To make things worse as far as Phil was concerned, Barton also successfully mounted an argument against Phil taking on the role as bait, as Phil's alias wasn't positioned to come to the attention of enough of the potential suspects – or to be perceived of as any sort of threat believably – when the only counterargument Phil could muster would be his fear over Barton getting hurt. It was bad enough for Phil to recognize he was now totally compromised when it came to Clint Barton; if Barton also found out, Phil could only imagine it would be the end of Strike Team Delta and then Phil couldn't do anything to look out for him or Romanoff.

The only spot of good news came when the family decided to close the club for a night so that a private wake could be held with the employees, the club's best customers, and Pendleton's friends and business associates. In the span of the first hour, Phil estimated a good eighty percent of the most likely suspects (and SHIELD persons of interest) had shown up for the free drinks. So, too, had a couple of undercover detectives, which soothed Phil's trepidation once he identified them from SHIELD's records.

The plan was simple at this point. Barton made a convincing drunk when he needed to, and had already established his alias to be friendly, if also sarcastic and impulsive. No one was finding his running off at the mouth out of character, or that his tales as they got wilder along with his inhibitions. He was telling his 'secret' to anyone he could find who would listen.

Once Phil determined everyone had heard through rumor or directly, that Brian Cross knew who really killed Pendleton, he followed a trio of dancers out who'd decided to leave before things got too maudlin or crazy. He moved past them before they thought he was stalking them, turning down the first street to then blend into the shadows. From there he made his way to a position he'd already scouted out in the abandoned building on the other side of the alleyway.

Fifteen minutes later, Barton exited out the back door of the club, to 'clear his head' and grab a cigarette. He moved halfway down the alley, the lit end of the cigarette glowing like a beacon. He picked a relatively clean spot to lean against the wall and mostly let the first cigarette and then the second, burn, just as he'd given the allusion of becoming drunk while not actually drinking.

Another ten minutes passed before the door opened again. They didn't really expect to get lucky right off the bat and Barton was prepared to take a public piss or vomit if he needed to discourage an amorous couple from seeking out the shadows. Phil certainly wasn't expecting to see the pregnant former dancer, who had been introduced around as Kandy Kane, making her way out. She looked around and then greeted Barton once she caught sight of him, holding up her own cigarette as she carefully made her way over and asked for a light.

Phil saw no sign of a companion following her – or meeting her – and certainly the odds were favorable for this to be as innocent as it appeared, but he still kept a portion of his attention on the two of them while also watching for anyone else using the meeting as a distraction to get close themselves.

"You really shouldn't endanger your baby like that, Kandy," Barton chided her gently, even as he bent over to light the cigarette for her.

Kandy choked out a laugh that had the hair on Phil's neck lifting; that had him moving from position as she lifted her cigarette to her mouth and then paused to say:

"And you should have left your eyes closed and your mouth shut, darling,"

Barton lifted his arm in time to prevent the cigarette from hitting his face, but he still hissed in pain as it was ground out on his wrist. Her pregnancy was obviously causing him to hesitate to strike her back, that and the sheer surprise that she was apparently their murderer allowed her to get the drop on him by pulling a knife out from under her _faked pregnant stomach_.

Had Barton been as drunk as he appeared, she might have been more successful. Had she really been a stone-cold killer, Kandy would have simply thrust up or slipped the knife in from waist level instead of taking the time to raise her arm so she might go directly for his heart. She also seemed to forget she was holding it in her left hand as she then stabbed directly downward to pierce Barton just below his right shoulder as he had time to move , if not completely, away. That got him responding instinctively, hitting her with a palm thrust to the sternum that caused her to lose her grip on the hilt as well as rocked her back a couple of steps.

Her scream drowned out Phil's shout. She sounded more angry than hurt, however, and quickly leapt back toward Barton, one hand reaching for the knife again while she curled the other up into a claw. Whatever psychological block that had prevented Barton from hurting a pregnant woman failed. Although he still held back from going through to the end with the move that should have had him snapping her neck, Phil thought Barton stopped short not from compassion, but the need to keep her alive so she might clear Romanoff's name.

Again, not dropping her ended up hurting him, as she managed to grab the knife again and pull it free, this time aiming for his throat with a wild backhand slash. Fortunately, Phil had closed the distance and could act. Before she could do more than slice at Barton's collar this time, Phil reached around her from behind and snagged both of her wrists, pulling her arms across her body and down to her hips to immobilize her. She thrashed and kicked, all the while still screaming, although she also started in with curses, directed not only at Phil and Barton, but also at Pendleton, for forcing her to abort the baby and making all of her life a lie.

Phil couldn't let her go to move and help Barton, not until her ranting attracted further attention, first from the street, then at the back door. It took too long for one of the detectives to make his way through the crowd, but at least his slowness allowed him to hear Kandy Kane's full confession as she continued calling down curses on Pendleton. At the same time, one of the other dancers broke free of the spectators, whipping off her shirt as she ran toward where Barton was once more leaning against the building behind him, blood welling between the fingers he was holding to his shoulder.

Hell, no. Not on Phil's watch.

He unceremoniously dumped Kandy Kane on her ass and left her for the police. Only slightly more gently, he pulled the new arrival aside before she could press everything against Barton's body, not just her hand and shirt.

"Herr Richards?" the detective called out to Phil.

"I will give my statement at the hospital," Phil snapped. He got one hand under Barton's elbow and pressed his other on top of the one Barton once more had against his shoulder, this time pressing the shirt instead of just fingers. His hold allowed him to support Barton as well as steer his steps. He hid his worry at how surprisingly compliant Barton was to being steered.

That he was going too far; giving himself away.

"We have a car – "

Barton shook his head. "Not with psycho Kandy," he hissed.

"No, no. Of course not. She will be held until a patrol car arrives. We can also call for an ambulance?"

Another head shake. "Just find us a taxi, please." Barton turned his head toward Phil's ear to keep the plea between the two of them. "I don't need a hospital."

"Humor me, please," Phil murmured back, using their sotto voce vocalizations as a reason to pull Barton closer. To hell with keeping his distance, to the regs; to making a fool of himself…

"We need to make sure there is no significant tendon damage. And that the knife wasn't contaminated." Phil kept them walking past the detective, Kandy, and the crowd, relishing that Barton didn't mind leaning on him – and that no one stepped in to stop them.

"Yeah, don't know what I was thinking," Barton conceded with a snort. "Fury would have a shit-fit if this messed up his investment in me."

Hearing that, Phil had to stop them for a moment, to make sure Barton… that _Clint_ understood what Phil was about to say. "Jesus, I don't give a damn about your shooting, Clint, other than how much pleasure you take in it. It's not about your fucking aim. It's _you_ that's important. To me. "

Barton lifted his head, the beginning of a smile lessening the lines of pain across his expression. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, you idiot."

"Why didn't you say something before this?"

Phil could only shake his head. "Because you're with Natasha."

Clint laughed, but at himself, Phil decided.

"I'm really not. Not like you think. She's… well… ah hell, you know what she's done. What's been done to her. We're something, but not that."

Phil wasn't sure he'd ever seen something quite so adorable as Clint's ears pinking; as far as SHIELD knew, Clint Barton didn't blush, even when he'd had to strip completely down in the middle of the cafeteria at the Hub when there'd been a contamination incident. Phil accepted the gift he'd been given with a small smile and started them forward again, thinking Clint was done since he ducked his head back down and leaned again against Phil's shoulder.

"You and me, on the other hand," Clint whispered. "We could be that. If you want."

Embarrassed, but so damn brave. There was only one response to that.

"Okay."

Only that stopped Clint in his tracks, which wasn't quite the outcome Phil had been hoping for.

"Okay?" he choked out. "After your declaration, after _my_ fucking declaration, all you can say is okay?"

Phil sighed and felt his own cheeks heating up. If he'd been any good at this, he would have tried something before now.

"Would you rather I say I think I'm in love with you?" he tried.

"I… ah… yeah. I think I'd like to hear that. Like a lot. But maybe not when I'm about to pass out."

Phil grinned. "Fine."

"Fine? Are you fu – "

"How about I'll tell you I think I'm in love with you each day you manage not to put yourself in a position where you end up passing out."

"Oh... um… I'll try?"

"Good enough."

– finis –

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
